Take for example, the gleam in Hinckley’s little black eyes as they rested on her. The earl was no stranger to that look, having encountered it in such diverse places as White’s celebrated Bow Window and Harriette Wilson’s equally celebrated house of ill repute.
Certainly, he had never found it particularly disturbing before. The nature of things decreed that many young women should be left defenseless, lambs for the shearing. But the thought of this particular young woman being shorn of her innocence made him want to deal the fat Hinckley a facer or, better yet, run a rapier through his abundant middle.
As the earl watched, Hinckley’s greedy eyes went once more to his cousin, and the tip of his wet pink tongue slid out.
Dreyford leaped to his feet and almost planted the imagined facer then and there. He was prevented from this unseemly behavior only by the restraining habits of many years.
“Hinckley,” he said tersely, “a word with you. Over here.”
“Of course, of course.”
Hinckley’s beady eyes gleamed and the earl tightened the reins on his self-control. He would not give in to the Dreyford temper. But he was quite sure that in his entire lifetime he had never encountered a more pitiful excuse for a man than this fat toad who now beamed at him.
“I’ve changed my mind,” whispered the earl, his frown darkening. “I’ll take the chit. But we must marry as soon as possible.”
“Yes, yes, milord. I thought you might. She has a certain beauty.”
Hinckley extended a fat paw, perhaps to guide the earl back to his seat. But a slight stiffening in His Lordship’s posture made the merchant content himself with a gesture.
They returned to their respective chairs and the earl, settling into his once more, cast another glance at the young woman who had just caused him to discard a hard-held tenet of some nineteen years. Her resemblance to Katie was not as pronounced as he had first thought. But that mattered little now.
It was not precisely clear to him why he should feel so strongly about this young woman. She was not, after all, Katie Howard. But for some extraordinary reason that had become immaterial. He felt that he had cheated the devil, who in this case bore an amazing resemblance to Charles Hinckley. And in spite of the fact that he had just given his consent to being shackled for life, he was immensely and inordinately pleased.
“My dear,” said Cousin Charles, and Fiona raised her eyes. In spite of his soothing tone, she expected trouble.
“I know this will come as something of a shock to you. But it is certainly a pleasant one. The earl has asked for your hand.”
For one wild moment the room tilted. Fiona clung to the arms of her chair and closed her eyes. What a cruel joke. She had no doubt Charles would find such a thing amusing; but somehow His Lordship did not seem the type to stoop so low.
She opened her eyes to find a dark face close to her own. His green eyes searched hers. “Are you all right, Miss Byrne? I fear your cousin was rather abrupt in his announcement.”
Fiona fought to regain control of her tongue. “I . . . Yes, thank you, milord. I’m afraid it was a little unexpected.” She sought for truth in the eyes so close to her own. “Is it . . . I mean . . . You really have come to ask for my hand?”
“Really.” The earl straightened and resumed his seat.
“I do not understand.” Fiona forced her features into a mask of composure she was far from feeling.
His Lordship’s tone became crisp. “I should think the matter is sufficiently clear. I wish to make you my wife, the Countess of Dreyford.”
“The Countess of Dreyford?” Fiona repeated. She knew she sounded stupid. But this was all some kind of dream. Cousin Charles beamed paternally and the stranger surveyed her from hooded eyes.
“I presume you have no objections to becoming a countess,” Dreyford observed.
“Of course not.” Bewilderment sharpened Fiona’s tone. A marriage that would remove her from Cousin Charles’s purview. A respectable marriage. Nay, more than respectable. It hardly seemed possible.
“I trust you have no insurmountable aversion to my person,” His Lordship continued, in the tone of one confident of his own worth.
“If I had, I should be considered a real pea-head,” she returned with a spark of humor.
“Then I fail to see what else can stand in the way of our speedy nuptials.”
“But, milord,” Fiona protested, “I have never laid eyes on you till today. And, as far as I know, you have not seen me. Why should you offer me marriage?”
Dreyford’s eyes once again swept over her in that look of intimacy that brought the blood to her cheeks. “Though you’re brown as a gypsy and your clothing is nothing less than abominable, you have a beautiful face. And that hair, properly dressed, will do much for you.”
His eyes traveled the length of her body and again she felt herself brought to the blush. “As for the rest of you . . .” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Your endowments are quite adequate. In the hands of the proper dressmaker you should make a credible countess.”
Fiona’s doubts were not resolved. A man like this did not just make an offer for a woman such as she. But with those eyes regarding her sternly, she could not protest again.
“I’m sure that Fiona is overjoyed, milord,” Charles interjected. “As she says, it has all been quite sudden.”
Fiona’s thoughts raced in mad confusion. Perhaps marriage to the earl would not be so bad. At least he inspired respect. Something that to her cousin’s dying day he would never achieve. Anything would be better than . . . Her mind rebelled at the thought.
His Lordship helped himself to a pinch of snuff from an elegantly enameled box, expertly flicking his wrist. Then he stretched his long, well-muscled legs and sighed. “May I suggest to you that my time is rather a valuable commodity. I should like your answer.”
“It’s yes, of course, milord,” Charles said quickly, only to be silenced by a ferocious frown.
“Let the girl speak for herself,” said Dreyford. “She has plenty of understanding.” He turned his eyes on Fiona.
He was not Lonigan, she thought. But she could respect him. Surely that was a sound basis . . . Dear God, Lonigan! Was she still married to Lonigan? Had their union been legal or not? She moistened her lips. “I am greatly honored, milord. But surely you wish to know more about me. There are things . . .”
The sound of Cousin Charles clearing his throat was a direct warning. Much as she wanted it to move, Fiona’s tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.
“His Lordship knows everything important,” her cousin said.
The meaning of this was clear: Lonigan was not to be mentioned. Fiona shivered. Her pleading eyes sought those of the earl. “Please, milord, may I speak to you in private?”
His Lordship cut off her cousin’s protest with a gesture of his hand. “Run along, Hinckley. I wish to be alone with my betrothed.”
The expression on her cousin’s face was not lost on Fiona. For his own reasons Charles wanted this match. If she bungled it, it would go badly for her.
The door closed with a sharp thud and Fiona was left alone with His Lordship. Nervously she got to her feet and, courteously, he did so too. For several moments he stood silent, watching her obvious agitation.
Finally he spoke. “I must admit to some perplexity.” He spoke in formal tones, though the stern lips quivered slightly as though suppressing a smile. “I did not expect to find hesitation on your part.” Stretching to his full height, he preened a little. “In London I have been for many seasons considered a prime article—‘best heart, best hand, best leg,’ as they say.”
Fiona was torn between admiration for the man’s confidence and irritation at his arrogance. “No doubt,” she replied somewhat dryly. “But you must realize, milord, that this is my first glimpse of you. And I, when I used to think on marriage, wished to marry for love.”
The earl’s fine features twisted in a moue of distaste. Something within him ro
ared rebellion at the thought that Hinckley might touch her, that she might be forced to submit to him. But it was pity, not love, that had prompted him to take this woman to wife. “I trust you have long put such nursery notions behind you,” he continued. “Had I desired a flighty, romantic young woman, London is full of pretty faces with empty heads behind them. I wish my countess to have some measure of understanding.”
She met his gaze. “I have been so long out of the nursery, milord, that it is no more than a vague and pleasant memory. And the life of a poor relation is not conducive to ideas of romance.”
Something flickered in her eyes. He recognized pain. He should; he was no stranger to it.
But she went on. “Nevertheless, I do believe that love exists. And I have not given up wanting to experience it.”
He shook his head and advanced toward her. “Are you afraid of me, Fiona?” he asked, a trifle surprised to discover that he felt actual concern. “Don’t be. I assure you, I shall make a passable husband.” Perhaps even more than passable, he told himself, aware that for the first time since he had reached manhood he was considering the institution of marriage with something less than complete antipathy.
“I do not doubt that, milord.” Clearly he was experienced in the ways of women. Clearly he had had his share of inamoratas. She would be foolish not to realize that. And foolish to let it bother her.
“Then perhaps you are afraid you will not make me a good wife.” He had moved until scant inches separated them.
“I . . .” Fiona began, but she could say no more. Those eyes of his had grown suddenly bright and warm. She felt them reaching deep within her. His fingers closed around her arms, pulling her against his waistcoat.
“Never mind,” he whispered, his mouth above her ear. “I know enough for two.”
Here was another opportunity. She must tell him about Lonigan. Whatever Cousin Charles said, whatever escaping from him had made her consider doing, she was still Lonigan’s wife. In the eyes of God, if not in the eyes of man. But her tongue refused to move. Her mind filled with the impressions of her heightened senses.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” said the earl, tilting back her chin so that her eyes were forced to meet his. “We shall deal together famously, I’ve no doubt. And now for a little pledge to seal our troth.” And he bent his lips to hers.
His kiss was soft and surprisingly tender. Something began to happen to her and she pulled back, frightened by the rioting of her senses. The earl seemed not to notice.
“Now, my bride-to-be,” he said, looking at her in a way she could not fathom, “I shall leave you to your preparations. Which, judging from the look of you, will not be very time-consuming. Pack only those possessions you treasure. A small trunk should do. Perhaps even a bandbox. I’ll send round a gown and the rest of what you need for our nuptials. We’ll procure a new wardrobe when we reach the city.”
He moved toward the door. “Oh, yes, we will exchange our vows day after next. Immediately after Constance’s ceremony. I expect she will want you in attendance. Then we shall be away to London.”
His lips curled in amusement. “I must beg of you, Fiona, my dear, to close your mouth. It ill behooves a future countess to gape like that. Surely you have heard of a special license? Until our wedding day.” And, bowing slightly, he departed.
As Dreyford strode toward his carriage, he smiled. Thank goodness he had prevailed. But why had the chit hesitated? He had never considered that, after he had come to the point of making an offer, the woman would balk at accepting it. His smile widened, became soft and tender, causing his groom to blink in surprise.
But the earl’s thoughts were otherwise occupied. He must find a gown and acquire a special license. He would not rest entirely easy until Fiona Byrne was out of reach of her fat cousin.
* * *
Chapter 2
The closed carriage bearing the Dreyford crest moved through the countryside toward distant London. Spring rioted outside the window. But Fiona’s mind was intent on the events of the past two days. One moment she was the despised poor relation in danger of being forced into an even worse position, the next she was the elegant Countess of Dreyford.
And elegant she was, she thought, looking down at her smart traveling dress of dove-gray sarcenet. The dress fit perfectly, accenting a figure that was more than passable, as her eyes had told her that very morning in Constance’s cheval glass. The same gown had served as her wedding dress. For, as the earl had pointed out, since they were to take the London Road immediately after the ceremony it was foolish to go in for all the folderol usual to such occasions.
Fiona had not demurred at this. The thought of standing before God’s altar in a special gown had seemed a compounding of her sin. Try as she might, she could not stop the little voice that insisted that she was still Lonigan’s wife. That she belonged to him and none other.
Fiona sighed. Even now she could not suppress a small shiver when she considered the fate she had so recently escaped. Fortunately, her cousin’s awe of the earl had kept him polite and at a distance. And now she would never again have to fear that mass of flesh.
Thinking of this, she felt a positive surge of gratitude toward the man at her side. Whatever his failings, and she had no doubt they were considerable, his Lordship had rescued her from a very unpleasant situation. Again she shivered.
“Are you cold?” he inquired, his eyes resting on her politely.
Fiona raised her eyes to his. “No, milord. I was just thinking of something unpleasant.”
“Your cousin Charles, no doubt,” the earl replied dryly.
Fiona looked at him in surprise. “How did you know?”
His Lordship crossed his long legs and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from a polished Hessian. “A simple matter,” he answered with a small smile. “I myself can think of nothing more unpleasant. I cannot imagine that living under his fat thumb was an experience to be envied. Especially for a young woman like yourself.”
Fiona glanced at him sharply, but he was busy considering his coat sleeve. Did he suspect what Charles had intended for her? If so, she owed him an even deeper debt of gratitude.
Since he continued to inspect his sleeve, she allowed herself a long look at his person. He had been quite correct in speaking of himself as a prime article. In his dark coat, a coat that seemed to fit entirely without wrinkles, he was a fine figure of a man.
She experienced again the surge of pride that had surprised her as she stood beside him in the rectory. There was no denying it: he was an exceptional man.
Of course she did not love him. He had none of Lonigan’s happy-go-lucky spirits and verve for life. But he was a man of substance. He certainly would not vanish during the course of a day.
Fiona pushed this disloyal thought aside. Something terrible had happened to Lonigan. Otherwise he would have returned to her.
“I trust everything went to your satisfaction,” His Lordship said, turning to face her.
“Yes, milord. Though I did wonder how you knew to have the gown fit so correctly.”
The earl’s hooded eyes regarded her levelly, a smile playing about his mouth. “You forget. I held you in my arms.”
Color rushed to Fiona’s cheeks. To judge a woman’s size by the mere feel of her? Surely no man could have that much experience.
His Lordship chuckled. “Perhaps I should not disabuse you of your engaging habit of taking everything I say so literally,” he drawled. “But, since we are shackled for life, I think it best to deal straightly. Actually, the size was got by sending for one of your old gowns.” He sniffed disdainfully. “I trust you brought none of that garbage with you.”
Fiona smiled. “Your trust is not misplaced,” she said. “I took great pleasure in leaving my cousin’s house as empty-handed as I entered it. And it is you I must thank for that pleasure.”
The earl shrugged his broad shoulders, putting the seams of his coat in some danger. “No thanks ar
e due. Any man would have done the same. I could scarcely have my countess running around in clothing fit only for a scullery maid.”
This was true, she knew. “Still, I must thank you. After all, I came to you quite empty-handed.”
For a long moment his eyes surveyed hers and she had the strangest feeling he was seeking something in them. “Not precisely,” he said slowly, his tone that of a man having reached a difficult decision.
Fiona’s breath caught in her throat. Her fears had been justified. This was all too good to be true. “What do you mean?” she asked, fixing her eyes on his face.
Dreyford’s sigh was real and quite heartfelt. It had been clear to him there in the library that the chit didn’t know about her dowry. Perhaps he should have told her then.
But he had felt such a need to get the girl out of there, almost as though she had been Katie. “I mean exactly what I say. You did not precisely come to me with empty hands.”
In the silence that followed she stared at him. “I knew there was something,” she said finally, her voice flat. “Will you tell me what?”
He regarded her soberly. Why hadn’t he kept his information to himself? “I suppose I shall have to. Though I assumed you would know about your own dowry.”
“My dowry! But I don’t . . .”
Dreyford sighed again. “Some consideration of the character of your cousin Charles might be in order here. Obviously he kept it secret from you.”
Fiona frowned. “I do not understand. Papa had nothing.”
“Your grandfather, whom you say knew nothing of your existence, followed your father’s wanderings with intense interest. And on his deathbed he left you a substantial dowry.”
She stared at the hands resting so calmly in her lap. “He left me . . .” She turned to face him. “What exactly did he leave me?”
“A piece of land in Ireland. Not outstandingly valuable in itself, but of interest to me since it adjoins my property there.”
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